


Trevor

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [36]
Category: Lie to Me (TV), Made in Britain
Genre: Dark, F/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7327948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juvenile delinquent Trevor finds himself incarcerated in a mysterious place, some kind of dystopian boot camp where he gets beaten for misbehavior, but rewarded with magic plates and the beautiful Gillian. Based on Tim Roth’s first role in Made in Britain. Unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trevor

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these universes.

The cell was cold, dark, and miserable. Oddly it had its own bathroom, which was quite clean and well-lit, but still cold and uninviting. Even the water that came out of the shower was never better than lukewarm, and it shut off after ten minutes anyway.

Actually the bathroom made things worse: if it had been, overall, some horrible dank h—lhole out of a medieval history lesson or maybe _Midnight Express_ , Trevor thought he would’ve gone into survival mode, where nothing mattered except staying alive, not even being human. But then there was that modern, clean bathroom, with towels and toothpaste and soap, reminding him that there were better things in the world, that they actually _had_ them here, they just weren’t giving them to him.

At first he’d thought it was some kind of crazy boot camp he’d been shipped off to. Classrooms, shop rooms, gardens, sports fields, all paraded before him like they were trying to see what stuck. Well, he wasn’t going to let them placate him with a bit of woodworking, become a mindless idiot drooling over the tomato plants. So what if there were dozens of other boys his own age doing the same. He wasn’t going to be turned into a sheep.

Trevor expected punishment for letting these views be known. Only natural. Solitary confinement, dirty chores, tedious exercise, extra hug therapy—whatever their particular philosophy entailed. He’d seen it all.

But he wasn’t expecting to be beaten. Kicked, punched, arm twisted, tossed to the floor—that wasn’t _allowed_ , was it? That wasn’t _legal_ , was it? Not coming from the man in charge, that Franco with the hard look in his eyes. Set upon by a gang of older students was one thing—but beaten by the man who had greeted him, beaten like his dad never had, by a man who was so hard he couldn’t even get one punch of his own in? No, he wasn’t expecting that.

And after the beating, to be dragged back to his dim, bare cell with no furniture, the only light that pouring in from the bathroom—weren’t they supposed to take him to a doctor? He might die! Or at least get sick, there on the cold stone floor, all alone.

It was an unbelievable situation. Right now he was furious about it, which helped to keep the pain and despair at bay. But they were gnawing around the edges, and pretty soon the anger would be consumed.

Trevor curled up tighter on the floor, dreading that moment.

“Well, well, well,” said a voice suddenly, and he jumped in surprise—then gasped in pain. When he could look up again he saw a woman standing in the middle of the room, draped in a long fur coat. “You’ve been here over a week and you’re still on Level 1. Most people figure things out a little faster than that.”

“Who are you?” Trevor demanded. “How did you get in here?” He was sure the heavy wooden door hadn’t opened.

“I’m Gillian,” she answered, kneeling gracefully beside him. “I’m the carrot.”

He had probably hit his head at some point. A woman in fur appearing in his room and declaring herself a vegetable was pretty strong evidence for hallucinations. “What?” he asked anyway.

“Franco’s the stick, I’m the carrot,” she attempted to clarify. “The positive reinforcement? Oh, never mind. They told me you weren’t very bright.”

“Who said that?” Trevor asked indignantly. Adding insult to injury was just low.

Instead of answering she looked him over with a critical eye. “You’re a mess, aren’t you?” She reached a hand towards his face and he flinched away, having had too many nasty surprises lately. “It’s alright,” she told him, in a slightly patronizing tone that was oddly reassuring. She brushed her hand over his swollen lips and aching jaw and a tingle like a mild electric shock went through him. When it passed, he realized—his mouth didn’t hurt anymore.

He poked at the once-loose teeth and split lip forcefully, possibly causing _new_ bruises. “What did you do?” he asked.

She sat back on her heels and regarded him with a certain lack of admiration. “They do say that asking questions is a sign of intelligence,” she observed dryly, “but _your_ questions are rather simplistic.”

“Well try answering some of them!” Trevor snapped in irritation.

“My name is Gillian,” she repeated, humoring him. “How I got here doesn’t matter. What I can _do_ is heal you. How I can _do_ that is unimportant. Have I forgotten any?” He indicated no. “And do you really know so much more than you did before? Think before you speak next time.”

He glared at her in the dim light, wanting to tell her exactly what she could do with her unwanted advice. But he _was_ intelligent, and he reasoned that there was more he could get from her. She waited patiently for him to speak again.

“Can you heal my other injuries?” Trevor asked, unable to keep a bit of his suspicious attitude out of his tone.

“Yes, I can,” she replied with more satisfaction, leaning towards him again. “Just point them out.”

Within minutes he was feeling better than he had in a long time. He couldn’t explain it just yet, so her vague dismissal would have to suffice. He assumed he would have plenty of time in this hole to think over the how—and the _why_ —of her ability.

“Thanks,” he offered a bit grudgingly. The healing done, he had pulled away to a comfortable distance, his chin resting on his knees. “Is that all you do? Heal people?”

“Well that’s a lot, wouldn’t you say?” she replied a bit frostily.

He wasn’t riled in return. “It’s a fair question.”

“I suppose,” she conceded grudgingly. “No, it’s _not_ all I do.” She flicked the collar of her fur gown and it slid from her shoulders to puddle in a silky pile around her hips. She did not appear to be wearing anything underneath it. “Do you like girls?” He would have thought his answer was obvious from the way he was goggling at her. “It’s alright if you don’t, they’ll just send someone else in.”

“I like girls,” Trevor insisted, a bit defensively. Did they like _him_ , was really the question.

“Ever had a girlfriend?” she probed, stretching out on the fur robe. She was indeed completely naked. Except for her shoes.

“No,” he coughed out.

“Ever had sex? With another person, I mean,” she clarified with a smirk.

“Yes.” It wasn’t teenage boasting, it was true, for whatever little it meant. For some reason it had seemed very important to have the experience of sex, like his virginity was a burden—a part of him he wanted to _use_ , like a patch of skin in need of a tattoo or a lobe in need of a piercing. He hadn’t even cared whether it was enjoyable, or whether the girl was someone he knew and liked—it turned out that none of those conditions had been met anyway. But the deed was done.

Alarmingly Gillian seemed to read all this from the single syllable of his answer. “Well come on over here then,” she tempted, patting the fur robe. “It’s nice and warm.” Something held him back. Possibly the whole ‘too good to be true’ aspect. “If you want to take a shower first or something, go ahead,” she assured him. “I’ll wait.”

Magical instant healing followed by beautiful naked woman offering him sex—hallucinations were practically a guarantee at this point. Especially the matter-of-fact way she offered to wait while he showered. He hadn’t expected his hallucinations to be so well-mannered. It would, he supposed, be somewhat foolish to resist.

**

Later. It _was_ warm under the fur robe. It enveloped them both with ease, cushioning them from the cold, hard floor. He wouldn’t mind keeping one for himself. “What did you say… about Level 1?” Trevor asked, having been thinking over the last couple hours.

“You’re at Level 1,” Gillian replied in a professional tone. “The logical goal would be to strive for Level 2, and thereafter, higher levels. As you progress, you get new privileges.”

“Such as?”

“Well, Level 2 gets you a camp bed,” she smirked, propping herself up on her elbow. The movement let in a draft of cold air that he didn’t appreciate.

“Hey!”

“I have to go.” He seemed to slip far too easily from the silky fur and was forced to scramble for his threadbare blanket for its marginal warmth.

“Where are you going?” he asked, slightly frantic as she rose gracefully to her feet, figure fully cloaked in the robe again. “When are you going to come back?”

“Not good questions,” she chided him teasingly. He stumbled over one of his boots as he stepped towards her and when he looked back up—she was gone.

**

It had probably all been a dream, or a hallucination. Trevor gave this idea a great deal of thought the next morning as he ate the oatmeal the guard had brought him. He hated oatmeal, and this was not an especially appealing oatmeal anyway, being flavorless, lukewarm, and slightly gritty. On the other hand, there was plenty of it.

In a place like this, surely sex, warmth, and healing were the norm for dreams. Of course, there was the inescapable fact that he didn’t have a single scrape or bruise on him when he awoke that morning, which was something of a hitch in the whole ‘dream’ theory. It might be that the beating was also a hallucination; or that he had been unconscious for long enough that his injuries had simply healed on their own—there was no way of telling the days here. Neither answer was satisfying to him, though.

“What day is it?” Trevor tried asking the hairy, beefy guard who escorted him from his cell. The man grunted to indicate that lack of hearing wasn’t a problem but otherwise didn’t respond. Trevor felt irritation well up within him but bit his tongue—he was trying to think before he spoke, and his thinking told him that antagonizing a beefy man carrying a huge spear was probably not a good idea.

He was deposited in a large garage of half-formed vehicles and workbenches—the auto shop—with a handful of other boys his age that he vaguely recognized from previous days. They were a sullen and surly lot, disinclined to idle conversation as they waited to see what would be inflicted upon them today. The guards positioned themselves around the room, bored with their babysitting task, and a portly bearded fellow in a heavy apron emerged from one of the side rooms.

“Well, good morning!” he said cheerfully. His enthusiasm was not returned, but he seemed undaunted by this. “Now, do any of you lads know anything about engines?” No response, which probably reflected only the audience’s anti-social tendencies, not their lack of knowledge. “Well, come over here and take a look at this beauty…”

With his mind not focused on whatever smart remark he wanted to make next, Trevor noticed a disturbing trend in his behavior. Every time he started to become interested in what the instructor was saying, he automatically reacted by distracting himself—turning away, looking for someone to accidentally kick, wondering what item he could steal unnoticed. It seemed ridiculous and self-defeating, once he’d noticed it—acting out when he was truly bored by the nonsense being fed to him in school was one thing, but why do it when he was actually _interested_? It made no sense, and he didn’t like being ridiculous.

So Trevor made a conscious effort to pay attention, crowding around the exotic engine with the others, and even managed to correct the instructor’s explanation once. Not in a respectful, tactful way, of course, but still, it showed his interest.

He was just leaning in for a closer look when there were some shouts behind him, and before he could turn something thudded hard across his back, knocking the wind out of him. He started to jerk backwards and hit his head sharply on the raised hood of the car, and everything went black.

**

It was still black when he awoke, soft and warm, too, like he was floating on a dark cloud through the night sky. “Coming around at last,” a voice said, and he groggily opened his eyes. “You must have been desperate to see me again, to go to such trouble.”

“Gillian,” Trevor murmured, curling up against her naked form under the fur robe. Another hallucination? He tried to clear his foggy mind. “What happened?”

“Well I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” she began, her arms wrapped around him soothingly, “but I gather someone hit you with something, and you hit your head.”

“Who?” he asked, oddly more curious than angry. “Franco?”

She made a chiding noise. “No, one of the other boys. I’m sure he’s being punished for it. Apparently,” she went on, “he took exception to this little doodad you’ve got here.” She tapped the swastika tattooed between his eyebrows. “Would you like me to remove it for you?”

“No.” He wasn’t going to get rid of it just because someone violently objected to it—in fact, that response made him all the more inclined to keep it.

“Well, alright, then.” They rested quietly for a moment. “When’s the last time you washed your clothes?” Gillian asked, a slight tinge of disgust in her tone.

“How do I wash them?” Trevor asked, a bit defensively. He hadn’t exactly seen a laundromat around here.

“Take them into the shower with you, and scrub them with the soap,” Gillian suggested matter-of-factly. “Then hang them up to dry overnight.” He made a noise that indicated his dissatisfaction with this suggestion. “Well, if you get to Level 2, you get another set of clothes,” she pointed out.

He snorted. “Level 2. What exactly do I have to do to get to Level 2?”

“Well,” Gillian said slowly, and Trevor glanced at her, interested by the hesitant tone. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but…” Now he _definitely_ wanted to know. “You were well on your way there today, until you got interrupted.”

“Oh.” He tried to remember what he’d been doing. “I was only in the auto shop, looking at an engine.” As a goal, it seemed a little vague.

“Well, you must have been behaving yourself better than usual,” Gillian decided. “That’s generally what you get to Level 2 for—showing that you can behave like a human and not an animal.”

He snorted against her neck. “Yeah, this place is _great_ at encouraging civilized behavior,” he commented dryly. Oddly, he didn’t feel too upset that his advancement had been (temporarily) interrupted—maybe that was because he had no idea what advancement meant around here. But surely he should feel furious that he’d been attacked? By someone who didn’t even have the b—ls to give him advance warning? Maybe they put drugs in the food here.

And the answer to that question had to be yes, didn’t it, when the next thing he thought was—

“Did I miss lunch?”

For some reason Gillian found this funny. “You did, but they would bring you some oatmeal if you really want it,” she confirmed. “However, I do have a little present for you,” she went on. “Do you feel like sitting up?”

He didn’t, really, not when sitting up meant leaving the warm, soft confines of the robe and instead sitting on the cold, hard floor. He ran a hand over his head, which was starting to grow stubble again, feeling for any sign of where he’d whacked it. But there was none.

“Do you feel alright?” Gillian asked worriedly, adjusting the fur around herself. “Are you dizzy?”

“No.”

She seemed marginally dissatisfied with this answer. Or perhaps _miffed_ was the better word. “That’s the problem with healing,” she sniffed. “People start to take it for granted _so_ quickly.”

“Are you my grandma?” Trevor asked with a smirk. “Do you want me to write you a thank-you note?”

“Showing your appreciation for something is never silly.”

Trevor reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her closer, and gave her a kiss. It was a little awkward; he didn’t have much practice at it. But he liked feeling her close to him. “Thanks. Did you say something about a present?”

She shoved away from him again, but playfully. “I should get you some laundry detergent as a present, _that’s_ what you need.” But what she produced was… a metal plate.

It was somewhat underwhelming, as far as presents went. “Where was _that_?” he wondered instead, indicating her voluminous robe.

“Pocket,” she answered innocently. “So,” she went on, “this is a _magic_ plate.”

“Magic plate,” Trevor repeated, humoring her. “Okay. I could use it as a Frisbee, I guess…”

“Give it here,” she insisted, snatching it back. “Now what you do is, you sit down like you’re ready to eat and—“ He looked back down at the plate, having briefly glanced up at her. “—voila!”

“How did you—you’ve just been carrying these, haven’t you?” he accused. On the plate sat a blushing red and green apple, a thick wedge of yellow cheese, and an equally thick slice of soft bread.

“No!” she insisted indignantly. “It’s the magic plate.”

Well, he didn’t believe her. Magic plate, whatever. But he didn’t let that stop him from scarfing down the non-oatmeal food.

“Unfortunately that’s all it makes,” Gillian explained, apparently sincere. “Apple, cheese, bread. It’s kind of a basic magic plate. And it only works once every few hours,” she warned. “You can get three or four meals a day out of it, is all.”

“Are you serious?” Trevor demanded through a mouthful of cheese.

“Of course!” She watched him eat for a moment longer, then stood. “Well, I better go.” Mouth full, he made a noise of protest. “You’re healed now, but you’re in no fit state for sex,” she judged, harshly in his opinion. “So, there’s not much else for me to do here.”

“What time is it?” he asked, finally swallowing the bread. “Are they gonna come back for me?”

“No, you’re in for the night,” Gillian told him. “Try to get some rest.”

“Yeah, that’s all there is to do here,” he pointed out in complaint.

“Behave yourself tomorrow, and maybe you’ll make Level 2,” Gillian reminded him, stepping back towards a corner of the cell.

“Whatever,” he replied, a bit rudely. Well, he was irritated that the one person he liked around here was leaving, and that he was going to be spending the next few hours sitting alone in the gloom with nothing to do. “What did—“ But when he looked up again, she was gone.

**

He followed her advice about washing his clothing in the shower, though it meant he had to shower at night instead of in the morning— _and_ that he had to sleep naked, with only the thin blanket around him, while his clothes dried in the bathroom. The incessant dripping kept him up almost as long as the cold did. When he went to dress in the morning, finally, he found the clothes unpleasantly damp still—but there was a certain satisfaction in their cleanliness, really. He could go through this once a week, maybe.

Without a method of telling time in the cell he just got up whenever he felt like it; they must have been monitoring him somehow, though he saw no cameras, because the guard always came with his oatmeal whenever he’d finished getting ready for the day. The gooey paste seemed especially unappetizing today, though warm at least. Halfway through the bowl he remembered Gillian’s “magic plate” and retrieved it. Magic plate. Ridiculous. He didn’t see any other purpose for the plate, though, and this wasn’t a place where items were just left lying around aimlessly. The guard was very strict about receiving his dirty bowl and spoon after every meal, for example. So what was the purpose of this sturdy metal plate?

He sat down to think about it, spinning the plate in his hands. He glanced around the upper corners of the room for a moment, wondering if he’d missed any vents or power connectors that could be useful to him—and something suddenly tumbled onto his lap. He jerked up, thinking at once of rats—though he’d never seen any around here—and saw instead on the floor of the cell a slightly bruised apple, a thick wedge of cheese, and a broken slice of bread. He realized he’d been holding the plate upside down.

There was nowhere and no one he could see that the items had come from. That didn’t mean, of course, that a magic plate was responsible. Nonetheless, he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at them, even if their sudden appearance meant he had to rinse them off a bit before eating them.

The guard returned in his usual timely fashion when he was done eating and led Trevor out through a maze of hallways. He was pretty good at finding his way around; but so far none of the interiors looked familiar to him. He was surprised to end up back at the auto shop—not even the outside of its door that he had seen just the day before triggered a memory.

Some of the boys waiting inside the room were familiar, and they glanced over at Trevor as if surprised to see him back already. If he ever felt like talking to any of them, he would have to ask if they knew Gillian and her healing touch. He bristled slightly at the thought of them knowing her in _other_ ways as well, but reasoned it was probably inevitable.

The instructor greeted them cheerfully again and set them each to work on disassembling a small engine using minimal tools. Trevor found the task surprisingly engaging and didn’t even think about pocketing one of the tools for quite a while.

“I’m not doing this s—t!” someone shouted suddenly, and Trevor looked up in annoyance as a teenager he didn’t recognize was hauled uncooperatively out of the room.

“Guess he’ll be visiting Franco soon,” Trevor muttered under his breath. Several of the boys working near him heard and smirked knowingly in response.

A nearby clanking sound interrupted his concentration and he glanced over at a dark-skinned young man whose frustration had reduced him to thumping on the engine with his wrench. Trevor started to ignore it, but the solution seemed so obvious to him that at last he couldn’t resist saying something. From a safe distance, of course.

“If you loosen the lug nuts on the back side, that panel will come off,” he remarked.

The other boy seemed surprised to be spoken to, or maybe to be spoken to helpfully. It took him long enough to process Trevor’s statement, anyway. Not the brightest bulb in the box, it seemed. Slowly he turned the engine around, looking for the lug nuts.

Trevor decided to risk moving closer. Tools could easily become weapons, as well he knew, but this kid wasn’t going to get anywhere with that befuddled look on his face. “See, these here and here,” Trevor pointed out. “Just loosen them. You don’t know much about engines, do you?” he surmised, watching the boy manipulate the wrench the way a toddler might.

“No.” The boy’s tone was resigned, as if engines were just one more thing to add to the list of what he didn’t know much about.

“Well do this one a little bit,” Trevor instructed, “then that one a little, then back to the first one, so they’re both out at the same time.”

“Why?” the boy asked, trying to follow Trevor’s directions.

“’Cause if you just do one all the way, the weight of the panel will snap the other one,” Trevor told him, unable to keep from injecting some snideness into his tone. Well, they were teenage boys, not little girls, he wasn’t going to worry about hurting a stranger’s _feelings_. “Careful with that,” he added after observing for a moment. “If you knock that tube loose you’ll spray us both with oil, and I just washed these clothes.”

“How’d you wash your clothes?” the other boy asked in confusion.

“In the shower,” Trevor told him, as if it should be obvious. “Hang ‘em up to dry overnight.” He wasn’t one to be overly-sensitive, but it was pretty obvious most of the other boys hadn’t thought of this—or heard the suggestion from someone.

“You’ve got a swastika on your face,” the boy observed a moment later, out of nowhere, while he and Trevor were staring at the level of rust inside in the engine.

“I know,” Trevor assured him. He saw what Gillian had meant about pointless comments and questions.

“I mean, that’s probably why that guy hit you yesterday,” the boy went on. He started to poke inside the engine with his screwdriver.

“Don’t do that,” Trevor told him. “Which one was it, anyway?” He had almost forgotten about the violent incident from the day before.

The boy shrugged. “I dunno his name. Looked kind of Hispanic, I guess. Don’t think he liked skinheads.”

“Push right _there_ ,” Trevor instructed, directing the screwdriver. “How odd. I thought everybody _loved_ skinheads.” The other boy snorted a bit at that, but in an appreciative way. Then something suddenly popped off the engine at the end of the screwdriver and they both jerked back in surprise.

“Was that supposed to happen?” the boy asked nervously.

“Absolutely!” Trevor reached across the workbench and retrieved the errant item. “This is your actuator cap. Now that it’s off you can adjust your actuator. That’s a good thing,” he added at the boy’s uncertain look.

“Oh. Good.”

“Well, time for lunch, everyone!” the instructor announced cheerfully. “Turn your tools in and scrub your hands before you go! I hope to see all of you back here tomorrow.”

Trevor shrugged at the boy he’d been helping—a juvenile delinquent way of saying good-bye—and put his tools back in place, then washed his hands thoroughly. Moments later he was following his appointed guard back to his cell. At least he had the extra treats from the magic plate to look forward to, though.

He had left the plate in the bathroom, on the sink—it seemed weird just to leave it on the floor—and it wasn’t until he’d retrieved it and settled down to eat that he noticed something was different about the room.

There was a _bed_ in there now.

Slowly he went over to investigate it, as if it might melt away under close scrutiny. It was a very basic camp bed, canvas and metal, with a slight rise at one end that was supposed to suffice as the pillow. Still, it was a good foot off the ground—and folded neatly on top of it was a new fleece blanket. Not especially thick, but thicker than the old threadbare blanket he’d started with, which was piled up beside it. He might actually be able to get some sleep tonight.

Also folded neatly on the cot was the second set of clothing Gillian had mentioned as one of the perks of Level 2—an exact duplicate of the clothes Trevor was currently wearing. T-shirt, trousers, baggy coat, socks, underwear—even a second pair of Doc Martens sitting beneath the cot. He found it kind of funny, actually—he was expecting some kind of generic institutional wear, perhaps a sweatshirt or something. Maybe it made the inmates easier to identify if they were all wearing the same outfits they’d come in with.

He sat on the bed to eat his lunch, finding it less comfortable than he’d imagined—but still, it was a sign of progress. Level 2. Logically there was a Level 3, and some task or condition he had to meet to attain that status and whatever other privileges it brought. How many levels were there? What happened after he reached the highest one? How long would it take? Where _was_ this place, anyway?

He had bounced around the system long enough that he could easily recite its necessary hallmarks: court visits, paperwork, dry chastising by his social worker, ineffective meetings with overworked counselors. There was certainly none of that here. The whole sex-and-beatings thing rather suggested he was outside the English judicial system, as well. And that meant he didn’t understand what the goal of this place was—or how to manipulate his way out.

Because, make no mistake, he was still looking for a way out. He was getting smart about avoiding unnecessary pain, but it wasn’t like a measly cot and second pair of boots was going to turn him into a tree-hugger or something. The tools he’d worked with in the auto shop were all numbered; he’d have to steal someone else’s, then, to avoid being caught before he even left the room. First, though, a test to see what happened when one went missing at all—maybe he could knock someone else’s screwdriver behind a bench, see how fast they caught on that it was gone, how they reacted. Yeah, that was a good plan.

The guard returned for him after lunch. The auto shop instructor had indicated Trevor wouldn’t be going back there until the next day, which was disappointing; the engine disassembly had been interesting, and he had a plan to implement. It was no use asking the guard where they were headed now, though. And all the unlabeled hallways and doors looked the same.

Finally they stopped before a door. The guard opened it and glared at Trevor to indicate he should go first, which he did with some disappointment. It was just a library, and a tiny one at that—a small hexagonal room lined with bookshelves, the center filled with a couple of tables that no one was using. As his eye followed the line of bookcases up, however, he realized that the room wasn’t so small—it went straight up, with more books on the upper levels, high enough that Trevor couldn’t really see where it ended. The design seemed inefficient but impressive.

“Oh hello dear,” said a cheerful voice, and Trevor looked back down to see a tiny old woman emerge from behind the desk on the far wall. “First time at the library?”

She sort of reminded him of his late grandmother, which was an ambiguous association for him. “Yes, that’s right,” he replied after some hesitation, trying not to sound _too_ obnoxious.

“How delightful! What kind of books do you like to read?” she pressed.

Again he hesitated. Unlike many sad products of the school system, even those who _hadn’t_ gotten into trouble, Trevor could read quite well. When he was younger he even read for fun, though never what he was _supposed_ to be reading. But in recent years street trolling had taken up most of his time—life was out _there_ , in the streets, on the corners, in the places they told you not to go, and if it all got rather boring sometimes there were plenty of windows to break and cars to steal and other street rats to harass. He certainly couldn’t sit around the house reading a book—the point was to get _away_ from the house, after all.

“I don’t really read much,” he finally answered. To his surprise it came out slightly apologetic.

She gave a knowing nod. “Ah, I see. Well, perhaps you’d like to start out with a classic?” She led him towards a shelf of books off to the side. “Some Bronte, perhaps, or Steinbeck—“

“Nah, I don’t want any of that stuff they push in school,” he declared, recognizing some of the titles.

“No?”

“It’s all bollocks, ain’t it?” he opined. “People don’t really talk like that. And it’s all boring, anyway.”

The librarian nodded as if he had made a very deep literary criticism. She pulled a book off another shelf and handed it to him. “Aubrey and Maturin? Exciting adventures with the British Royal Navy!”

“Too much Queen-and-country nonsense,” he judged instantly.

She took the book back and moved thoughtfully along the shelves. “Interested in non-fiction at all? History, science, business—No,” she deduced from his expression. “Ah, how about this? Science fiction of the highest order!”

He took the novel she offered and read the back. “I think I’ve read this before,” he finally replied.

“Would you like to read it again?” she suggested. “Orson Scott Card can be very different at different ages.”

“Yeah, sure,” he decided with a shrug. It was a little boring just standing around the library; he was ready to move on to the next activity.

“Alright then, dear,” the librarian said with a smile. “You take that with you and read it. Come back whenever you’re done and we’ll chat about it.”

Trevor watched her carefully maneuver back to the desk. “Don’t I need to—check out or anything?” he asked, feeling awkward.

“No need, dear, I know who you are,” she told him, tapping a few times at her computer terminal. The words seemed slightly sinister to him and he left quickly with the guard.

He was led back to his cell. “Breakfast tomorrow,” the guard grunted, locking the door.

“Hey!” That meant Trevor was in for the night—most of the afternoon, as well. That was _not_ what he’d been hoping for. Was _this_ what you got with Level 2, more time spent locked up in your cage? Did they think they had domesticated him so quickly?

For a moment he was tempted to rip the stupid book to shreds. He got as far as flinging it across the room, then reasoned that the afternoon and evening would be even _more_ boring if he had to spend them staring at the walls. With a sigh he retrieved the book, wrapped his new blanket around himself, and sat down on the floor near the bathroom, where the light was better.

**

He was in the same position the next afternoon when Gillian came along, with what he considered a far better idea. Afterwards, as they were curled up in the warm fur robe—still on the floor as the bed didn’t fit two—he asked her about the requirements for Level 3.

“Oh, you have to read some books, is all,” she replied dismissively.

He frowned. “Well, how _many_ books?”

She raised up on her elbow to look down at him. “Don’t you like to read?”

He shrugged. “It’s alright.”

She reached outside of the robe, distracting him from conversation, and grabbed the book he’d tossed aside. “Is this good?” she asked, reading the back.

“Yeah, it’s alright.” High praise indeed. “But if I’ve got to read books to move up a level, they’re not gonna be _those_ kind of books.” She looked at him questioningly. “Interesting books, I mean. No one cares if you read a lot of _those_. The only ones that count are boring things. Jane Austen and Shakespeare and stuff.”

“Where did you hear that?” Gillian scoffed. “Anything they’ve got in the library, you can read. You just have to talk to the librarian about it, to prove that you read it. And anyway,” she added, “I _like_ Jane Austen and Shakespeare.”

He rolled his eyes. “Girls always like Jane Austen.”

“Oh, reason enough to avoid it, then?” she teased. “We wouldn’t want anything to do with icky _girls_.” She stretched out her legs and reminded him _exactly_ what he wanted to do with girls.

“Sorry, did you say something?” he asked after a moment.

She laughed and smacked his shoulder lightly with the book. “Anyway, it’s not Level 3 you have to worry about,” she told him. “It’s Level 4. To get to Level 4—you have to make a _friend_.”

“Aren’t _you_ my friend?” he suggested, trying to keep his tone light.

“I don’t count,” she shrugged. “But once you get to Level 3 you can eat in the dining hall, so you’ll meet more people.”


End file.
